


Native Son

by glasgow_blue



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Gen, Monaboyd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	Native Son

Title: Native Son  
Word Count: 480 and some to spare  
Disclaimer: I am making this shit up.  
Archive: Please ask.

This is a Blue Plate Special for [](http://notfriedkasei.livejournal.com/profile)[**notfriedkasei**](http://notfriedkasei.livejournal.com/). Prompts: giant snowflakes and menthol cigarettes.

Hawaii was love at first sight. Just like that.

The rush. The adrenaline. New textures and tastes. New smells. Heightened senses. Obsession. Need. Every spare moment is a journey. Every night he fights sleep, not wanting to miss a beat--worried that he'll wake to find Her gone.

But Dom's a northern soul, no matter how he fights it. Born and raised in lands where snow flies. Where the wind would rather cut through you than offer a caress on the way around. So his dreams are filled with souvenirs--with leaden skies and barren trees. He wakes up damp, chilled. It takes coffee and two hours in the sun before he can forget the smell of England in winter.

It's Jorge who finally sorts him straight. They're sitting on the beach and he shakes his head, allowing Hurley to shine through.

"Dude," he says. "Get on a plane."

And then it's obsession all over again. Dom begins to crave England's most basic charms--tea and toast, footie in real time, warm beer and chilly bathrooms. He's going nowhere until he goes home, that's for bloody sure. Bangers, mash, and all.

So Dom gets on a plane. He crosses two oceans and a whole freaking continent, just to get a decent bit of fish and chips--just to be in a place where they call chips by their proper name. And once he's there in the cold Manchester dawn--navigating murky roundabouts in a rental car and cursing the bastard who invented jetlag--once he's there, he knows Jorge was right.

Home is good.

It's snowing. Giant saucer-sized flakes that cling to the windscreen in perfect detail. Life inside a snow globe--flawless, peaceful, frozen. Dom turns off the wipers and pulls over, just to watch them settle and merge. He rolls down the window and sucks in a breath. This is not tropical air.

It's cold. Cold enough to burn his lungs and there is the tang of industry; smoke and steel and exhaust, all in a bitter mix.

This is the air that choked him, once. This is the air that weighed him down with strands of apathy that could be broken only by defiance. Smashed windows. Fights. Boosting packs of menthol cigarettes from the newsagent.

He's lived a lot of places, Dom has. And each of them has a time --a space-- in his core. They all line up neatly and, like pieces of a puzzle, drop in to make him whole. He envies Billy and his city, far to the north--envies the idea of having one singular representation of past and present…of future.

But transience has its boons and if Billy is a tapestry, then Dom's a patchwork quilt with scraps and bits to mark everywhere he's ever been. Tea and mangos. Black sand and white. Bricks and cobbles. Mountains, oceans, deserts. Geoffrey, Merry, Charlie. Dom.

Home. Home is good.

 

With thanks to [](http://taibhrigh.livejournal.com/profile)[**taibhrigh**](http://taibhrigh.livejournal.com/) , who told me how it didn't end, and [](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/profile)[**diavestra**](http://diavestra.livejournal.com/), who told me how it did.


End file.
